The Sound of Rocking
by Whiggity
Summary: Victor has grown a bit conservative with old age. Victoria thinks the thumping coming from the drawing room is not the big deal he's making it out to be.


****I take an entire school term off of my big story and then decide I desperately need to bang this out in an afternoon? Go figure.**  
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_Thump, thump, thump._

Moving from the study to the kitchen for a sandwich wasn't as easy a task now as it had once been, but that was only part of the reason Victor felt himself grow so uncomfortable as he passed by the drawing room door and was given reason to pause.

It was Victoria. It was that _rocking_ again.

Victor leaned heavily on his cane for a moment, shaking his head. He did want a sandwich, and quite badly, but against his better judgment found himself shuffling toward the door.

He rapped twice, lightly. The rhythmic thumping immediately stopped. Victor gave her a moment, and then opened the door.

Victoria was sitting exactly as she always did, in the winged armchair by the east window. Her white hair was the slightest bit wispy at the edges with a light sheen of sweat, and she tugged her skirt down conspicuously with the hand lying across her lap.

"Victor," she said as he stepped into the room fully, smiling at him over her glasses. "I was just reading." The only book within reach was a very closed copy of _Gelding: The Advantages and Disadvantages, _sitting on the gramophone table.

"I can see that," he said. Slowly he took another step into the drawing room, a hand on his stooped back to try and ease the pain.

"Victor -" Victoria began, starting to stand.

"No, no, I'm fine," he insisted, waving her down as he approached the center of the room. "Better than fine. I'm wonderful. But, um," he flicked a limp finger in her direction. "Some very noisy reading, here, don't you think?"

Victoria blinked. "Yes. I suppose it was." She folded her hands in her lap in what seemed to him a clear gesture of insincere contrition. He'd known her longer than anyone in this world or the next, and that meant he knew perfectly well when she was trying to placate him.

"Please, now," he said, finally dropping himself into the armchair across from hers. "Victoria, dear, really, we've spoken about this."

Her sweet face had remained wrinkle-free all these years for her constant good spirits, but now she was very much on a frown. "Yes we have, at your insistence," she said, flattening her skirt out further. Victor sighed and wished that he'd closed the drawing room door behind him.

"I know you think it's not my business," he said, hoping that if he used the right tone they might avoid an argument, "but darling, I've told you how I feel about it, and -"

"I suppose I'm still looking for your answer as to why I should curtail my enjoyment for your insecurities," Victoria said in turn, removing the reading glasses and folding them in her hands, delicately outlined with the shapes of tendons and veins.

Victor reached up and rubbed his forehead with his own old hands. He never did know exactly how to explain himself on this point, even gone over it a dozen times as they had. "It's simply… it's not _us,_ I don't think."

Victoria did not disresemble her mother completely; she had inherited a withering quirked eyebrow. "Not _us_, dear?" she asked. "Or not you?"

"Well, I think it's quite clear that it's not _me,_ considering_ I_ do not…" He trailed off, leaving the end of the sentence implicated by a vague hand-wave. "It doesn't… become us. As a couple. As a family. Not really."

"My actions do _not _say anything about us as a family," she said with great emphasis, "and it's not anyone's business but our own what we choose to do in our home." She sat up very straight. "You know perfectly well this hang-up is all yours. This is such a silly thing to be arguing about."

Victor straightened as well as he could in the chair to match her. He was so bent these last few years that he and his wife were of equal height now. "It's not a _hang-up,"_ he insisted, knowing that it was absolutely a hang-up. "It's only that… Victoria. We're too old for this."

"Too old to enjoy ourselves?"

"…In this way, yes."

"Rubbish. I've thought about it, and I believe old age is the perfect time to do the things we wouldn't when we were young. You sound like my mother." She templed her hands delicately, knowing well that she'd played a trump card, but then slowly let her face fall into a concerned frown. "You know I love you, Victor. But I think you don't want me to do it because you can't anymore."

He'd raised a hand before she'd even finished speaking. "Absolutely not. That is not the reason."

"Then what is the reason? Can you tell me?"

"It's…" He wasn't sure how to finish this in a diplomatic manner, and finally put up a hand. "I don't _like_ it, Victoria. It makes me uncomfortable, I've told you this. It's unbecoming of old men and women like us. We ought to be… sedate."

"Victor, you have never been one to act a certain way because you _ought_ to."

"Well, in this case…" He didn't like what this conversation was becoming. He was already taking his father's quarter on this sort of matter, and felt very uncomfortable with that, but still too prideful to back down now.

"I think you believe it's unladylike of me," Victoria told him knowingly. "You were just as concerned when you learned Vera enjoyed it." He didn't think bringing their granddaughter into this was entirely fair; things Vera enjoyed were not unilaterally good or moral ones. She'd said it would be good for him read a book 'from his day' called _The Awakening, _and all it had done was make him very uncomfortable. Victor started to speak, but was interrupted. "I think you're concerned that when I find something new and – and fresh, and exciting, like this, I'll stop having much in common with you. I have a way to relax that you can't participate in. It's exclusionary."

He rubbed wearily at the gray whiskers on his chin. "I hadn't thought of that," he muttered. "But it's another good reason."

"It's not a good reason at all," Victoria said, looking peeved. She crossed her arms across her chest. "It's not 1918 anymore, Victor. I've read the literature. Men can't dictate their wives' actions. I've every right to like what I do."

"I'm not dictating," he said, trying to sound gentle. "I'm only asking."

Victoria's expression softened. She sighed and laid her hands back in her lap. They were quiet for a few moments, listening to the quiet whir of the gramophone by the wall.

"You never did like much excitement," Victoria said after a minute. Victor couldn't argue with that.

Another minute passed.

"You could try, you know," Victoria said.

Victor shook his head wearily. "You know I have. I can't do it."

"You never tried that hard," she said, smiling. "Come on. You trust my judgment. Would I tell you to do it if it wasn't wonderful?"

"Maybe it's wonderful for you," he said, bracing himself back into the armchair.

"Nonsense," she said, standing, and proffering a hand. He looked at her wearily. She batted her lashes at him. "Victor."

He took a deep breath and slumped his shoulders. "You'll be the death of me," he said, taking her hand, and she helped him to his feet.

"Don't worry," she promised, walking toward the window. She winked. "I'll be there to help."

Victor found himself sighing again as she dropped the needle on the gramophone. _Here we go,_ he thought as it started up. _Thump, thump, thump…_

_Oh, the sun goes down and the moon shines bright  
It's time for a ball on Saturday night  
People gather 'round like bees on a hive  
And boys start a-rocking out the real rock drive…_

Victoria was already smiling and tapping her feet. She nearly skipped over to Victor to take his hands. He shook his head, but couldn't stop her from swaying his arms to and fro on the disconcertingly heavy beat of the music. "Dance," she entreated.

"I'll dance when I'm dead," he said, and meant it. For now his back hurt too much.

Victoria pulled away. She'd never been much for dancing when she was younger, but she swung her hips and kicked her feet out from under her skirt, laughing. He didn't understand at all what she saw in the music. It gave him headaches. It was noisy, and it was senseless; who would want to dance to music about people dancing? And she did look ridiculous. But it was hard to deny her smile and the healthy flush in her cheeks. As she danced, he may have even found his foot tapping lightly to the beat.

Out in the hallway, the housekeeper passed the door with the music drifting out of it and peered inside to see the couple, one standing stationary in the center of the floor and his wife dancing around him. She couldn't help a small smile as she slipped past on her way toward the kitchen. She was a modern woman, not of her mother's generation.

It was very healthy that a couple should still be able to dance together after fifty years.

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**My own contribution to the venerable "Victor and Victoria engage in a conversation that seems questionable but then turns out to be innocent and cute" genre! This week's installment: old people, whackin it. This is what my liberal sciences degree is amounting to, apparently.**


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